


Broken Crowns

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief, Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plan should have worked, but they were betrayed. Maedhros only wishes that it had been himself who had had to pay for it with his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Crowns

Maedhros was fighting, the fire of battle burning in his veins, singing in his sword arm as it scythed out to connect with the hated flesh of the enemy in a silver arc.

They had been held back, but now they were here, and he could finally do what this had all been for. All the planning, poring over battle plans and debating with his brothers. All the deals and reassurances, uneasy alliances propped up with the promise of freedom from the darkness, if they should succeed. This was what it had all been for.

Maedhros slashed out with his sword as a huge orc with a fearful spiked club leered down at him, throwing his weight into the blow, turning the motion into a vicious cut that sheared through armour, spilling hot, dark blood. He was silver fire, and they could not touch him. His mouth had curled into a snarl, without his intent; at moments like these, Maedhros felt  _alive_ , defiantly and joyously and perilously alive.

He composed himself for a moment, trying to peer over the roiling tide of battle. There was a ridge, a little way off; he knew that on the other side of it, Fingon’s host was fighting. He could see smoke rising from far off, staining the sky with grey that was lit from underneath by flashes of a hot rust red glow.

Maedhros frowned, trying to feel for the familiar touch of Fingon’s mind. He could sense it, very faintly, but either they were too distant or Fingon was distracted, so no words could be exchanged. A moment later Maedhros’ attention was snapping back, and he was lunging out of the way as another orc came at him with a spear.

He fought on.

 

———-

They had been betrayed.

 _Ulfang_. Maedhros ground his teeth, fury tingeing his vision red. He should have known, he thought dimly, desperately, as Caranthir charged past him, locked blade to blade with an Easterling warrior. They were losing, Maedhros thought, the knowledge accompanied by a horrible sick emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

He would have to call a retreat, there were too many… overhead the sky was a churning mass of blackness, smoke and fumes hanging poisonously in the air as blasts of dragon flame exploded upwards from a patch of ground not far off. The dwarves were fighting the dragon, he knew, for though he could not see them he could hear their war cries, cutting through the cacophony of clashing steel and the screams of the dying.

If he could only help… Maedhros blinked, as he felt a blow to the side of his helm that set his head ringing and stars dancing in his vision. When they cleared, one side of the metal rim was pressing painfully into his forehead, metal cutting into skin above his eyebrow, blocking his vision. He could feel a warm trickle of blood against his eyelid, and blinked as red blurred his field of view on his sword hand side.

With a curse and a growl, he pulled the helm from his head, whirling and parrying a blow even as he did so. He cast the helm aside and flung himself into the fray once more with renewed ferocity, hacking and slashing at orcs and Easterlings alike as their blades cut at him.

Maedhros tried to look for his brothers, amongst the clashing swords and the thick carpet of corpses that now covered the ground, dread spiking in him with every turn. In the distance, he could hear Celegorm’s rallying horn call, bright and wild, sounding bloody destruction, the final charge. He imagined his brother laughing as he fought, pain and joy tearing through him, casting the horn aside as his sword danced. Was this to be their end? Maedhros looked into the lowering sky, feeling for Fingon’s presence again. Just on the other side of that ridge…

“Nelyo! There are balrogs coming… Gothmog has joined the western battle. You must call a retreat!”

The voice spoke Quenya, and was familiar as any other he knew. Maedhros whirled to see Maglor who had cut his way through to his side, face smeared with blood and grime, his twin swords flashing in the bursts of fire that had begun to illuminate the sky with greater frequency now.  _Balrogs?_  He stiffened, remembering their father dying at the hands of Gothmog, the balrogs that had taken Maedhros himself captive, dragging him to Angband and taunting him with their fiery whips…

“Nelyo!” Maglor’s breathing was laboured. “We’re in a valley… if they trap us here we will  _all die_.” He screamed out a challenge at an orc that had tried to stab him in the stomach, slicing its head off with a single clean reverse blow from his left sword. “We are betrayed, and there are too many… Azaghâl is dead. Nelyo! Are you listening to me?”

Maedhros glared at him, feeling a sudden flash of fury.  _It shouldn’t be like this, everything was planned, it should have worked…_ the crushing weight of the Doom lay heavy on him in that moment as he glanced fretfully over the ridge once more.

Maglor followed his gaze, looking him in the eye quickly. “He’ll be alright” he said, without much conviction. “Nelyo, you know how strong Finno is. And, Eru willing, he still has the loyalty of all his people, unlike us. We must retreat.”

Maedhros hesitated for a moment more, and then nodded acquiescence, a weary dip of his head. The battle spun them apart for a moment, as they both turned outwards to face a furious onslaught of goblins that charged them, the two brothers fighting back to back.

“Where is Curvo?”

Maglor grunted, pulling his blades from the throat of one of their attackers. “I don’t know. I think he was with Azaghâl…” Maglor’s face paled a little, “Nelyo, you don’t think…”

The battle dragged them apart once more, for a moment, but when Maglor was at his side again, Maedhros was frowning. “I think it changes nothing” said Maedhros grimly. “You’re still right.” He stared around him; the ground was trodden with red and black blood alike, but there was more red, both mortal and elven blood.  _Strange_ , he thought, with a sudden clarity, _how betrayers’ blood looks the same, in the end, as that of the betrayed_. “Alright” he began, “Macalaurë, we must - ”

But at that moment, his voice stopped in his throat. The world careened around him, either too slowly or too fast, a whorl of noise and earth and blood colours.

Maedhros  _knew_  this scene.

Long ago, in Angband, his mind had been violated, the terrible servant of the dark one crafting his thoughts systematically, lovingly almost, into things meant to hurt, to draw screams. To drive Maedhros to madness, shattering his inner world into a cracked mirror of nightmare visions, scenes of blood and violence. Scenes of those he loved, dying over and over, blood staining the earth, and somehow in those dreams, he had always been the one to blame.

Afterwards, he had taught himself, over many years, that they had not been real. He had learned to tell the difference between dreams and reality. Or so he had thought, as he had let Fingon hold him close to his chest, murmuring reassurances into his hair when he woke screaming in the night.  _Shh, Maitimo. It’s not real. It’s just a memory of something that never was, that never will be. Sleep now. You’re safe. They won’t hurt you again. I’m here._  And even later, when Fingon had not been there, those had been the words that had stilled Maedhros’ panicked hitching breaths, had stopped the hot sting of tears on his cheeks when he woke in the half-darkness before dawn.

Over time, he had forgotten the details of the scenarios, or had locked them away somewhere deep inside his mind where he would refuse to let himself look.

Until now.

The scene was the same, he was sure of it; the ridge before him, the tide of whirling battle, the grey-black sky lit from below by bursts of flame. The sound of his own breath and the blood pounding in his ears, muted and yet somehow far too loud. The smell of blood and death and burning. A sword in his hand, his fingers unconsciously slackening on its grip as he felt his senses explode with the knowledge of what, in that long-ago vision, had come  _next_ …

_Findekáno._

Perhaps it was because he knew, he thought later. But at that moment, the presence of Fingon’s mind in his was so close, bright and warm and filling up his consciousness as though they were standing next to each other. It hit him like a physical blow to the chest, sending him staggering backwards. Fingon burned with battle fury, wherever he was, he was fighting for his life, he was desperate… the world blurred around Maedhros, becoming colours and a dull roaring in the back of his head.

Then, suddenly beyond the ridge, he saw a burst of flame and a white flare shoot up into the noisome air. The part of his mind that was connected to Fingon seemed to crack, their voices screaming as one for a moment as a splitting white-hot pain shot through Maedhros’ head. His mouth was forced open, but he could not tell whether he was screaming; there was too much noise and his throat was raw anyway.

_No. No, come back._

Then came the emptiness, the slow, surreal haze as his mind snapped back into its right place.

“Nelyo! Look out!”

The voice penetrated his consciousness as though from a great distance; Maedhros ignored it, feeling sickness building in his stomach, mouth open as he turned, his sword half falling from limp fingers. 

There was something slamming into his body from one side, knocking the breath from Maedhros’ lungs. His head hit something soft which he dimly realised, somewhere in the depths of his stunned mind, was the body of one of his own soldiers. Then a shape was rising over him, blocking out what little light there was, and as Maedhros’s vision cleared, sound coming back too, he saw who it was.

Uldor, gleaming curved sword drawn, blood running down one cheek and eyes burning with hatred.

Maedhros tried to reach his sword but it was too far away, and his legs felt weak, useless. The blade of the betrayer arced towards him, and all he could think was  _yes. Take me too. Let me die and let him live_.

Then there was a cry of rage, and another shape was rising up to meet Uldor, crossed twin blades like darting bolts of lightning cutting across his throat, the motion precise and deadly, strangely silent but for the war cry of the attacker. There was a great gout of hot blood, and Uldor fell like a broken puppet to the ground.

Maglor stood over him, his face twisted in pain and streaked with dirt. His surcoat was soaked with scarlet blood, his armour slick with it, and he was holding his twin swords utterly still at his sides, as though poised, frozen as he stared at Maedhros. Then relief flashed across his eyes, and he was offering Maedhros his hand, pulling him to his feet, before he caught Maedhros’ gaze. Whatever he saw there made him start with alarm.

“Nelyo, what - ”

Maedhros’ voice cracked as he tried to speak, bending to retrieve his sword. He couldn’t stop staring at the sky above the ridge. He saw the fire then.  _Balrogs_ , Maglor had said. Maedhros looked at the ground around them, strewn with corpses, orc, elf, dwarf and mortal alike.  _Enough now. Enough death._   _We cannot win._  A terrible hopelessness was burning through him, consuming and crushing his spirit, though his limbs now felt as strong as they had been before. He nodded at Maglor. “Retreat” Maedhros managed to choke out. He growled, furious at his own weakness. “Retreat” he said again, louder. He was shouting now. “Retreat! To me! The field is lost. Retreat! Retreat!”

———

“We don’t know for sure that he is dead” said Curufin, peering resentfully from beneath the bloody bandages that wreathed his head. “We have had no reliable news, only that Nelyo had a… some sort of  _vision_ …?”

Anger built in Maglor’s gaze as he sheathed his swords – which he had just finished cleaning - with a little too much force. “I don’t really think that now is the time to be questioning Nelyo’s mental link to Findekáno” he hissed, darting a quick, apprehensive glance across their forest camp to the other side of the clearing, where Maedhros was pretending to sleep. (He would not sleep, he knew. He could hardly see how he could ever sleep again, what with the expanding emptiness that was filling his chest, crushing him from the inside outwards.)

“How long are we to remain here anyway?” asked Amrod, looking at their sleeping brothers doubtfully. Caranthir had been given a crude sleeping draught made by Celegorm after being cruelly wounded, and was truly sleeping, Maedhros thought. He could feel his brother’s mind not far away, feel the healing sleep that washed over him. Maedhros was glad if any of his brothers could find some solace now; he knew that he never would.

“As long as we need to” said Celegorm, making a fist. “We are being hunted, but they will give up soon enough.”

“Will they?” This was Amrod once more. He looked over at the small straggling host of loyalists who had made it out alive and were camped a little way off. “Why would they?”

“The enemy will hunt us until he finds some of Findekáno’s remaining people to hunt” said Maglor. “The Edain, perhaps, or the few who remain. He seems to want to exterminate them more than he does us.”

“Then we should let him” snarled Curufin, the bandages casting half of his face in shadow. 

“I suppose they will be something of a distraction” agreed Maglor neutrally, inclining his head as though in thought. “Himring has fallen. If we try to make for Amon Ereb though…”

“Amon Ereb is too far away” said Celegorm impatiently. “We’d never make it, not with all these wounded people. We can  _try_ , but it would be madness…”

“Well, do you have any other suggestions?” said Maglor frostily. “Moryo is wounded, and many others too.” He gestured around the little group of their brothers. “None of us got through this entirely unhurt. And Nelyo is…” he tailed off, uncomfortable.

“Whatever we do” broke in Curufin, before Celegorm could form a retort, “we should wait for news of Findekáno first.”

They fell into silence at that, and Maedhros lay very still under his cloak, feeling all their eyes on him from across the clearing. The camp was lit only by lampstones; they could not risk a fire, and the moon and stars were hidden behind the fumes that had come from Angband, hanging low over all the lands as though to mock the survivors.

Maedhros’ lips were dry and cracked, his mouth tasting sour. His eyes felt sandy and prickled with tiredness, but he was unable to sleep.  _Undeserving of sleep_ , said a cold voice in his head. _Undeserving of rest. You led them to their deaths; you led Findekáno to his death, he who gave you his love and trust, and so much more. How could you ever let yourself sleep again, now?_  He knew he could not sleep, and yet he longed to, to sleep forever and shut out the terrifying void on the brink of which he stood, the emptiness he felt, tempered with the guilt.

 _Coward_ , said the voice.  _You always were a coward, Nelyafinwë Maitimo, letting others die for you._

———-

The messenger arrived on the fifth day, a dying soldier with a great gash in her side, where a poisoned blade had sheared through chainmail. The wound was partially healed, but when they lifted the dirty rust-red bandages there was a smell of rot and orcish poison, and she gritted her teeth, stilling Celegorm’s hand with her own. She choked out her last words in his arms, spitting tiny drops of blood that flecked his face with every word. There was a scrap of fabric too, the blue stained a deep brown by blood.

There were more of them, after a while, people straggling into their tiny camp which moved by the day, coming and going even so. Some would recover from their wounds and live; some would sicken and die.

Maedhros watched it all from a distance, saying nothing.

 _The high king is dead._  The words echoed in his head for many hours after, days that turned to long, excruciating weeks. Often he simply sat and stared, feeling them resound in the emptiness that was his heart.

It was, he thought, similar to how he felt immediately after losing his hand, a mild sense of surprised nausea and disorientation at the lack of something that had always been there, a sudden jarring moment of it every so often.

The hand, of course, had always hurt sometimes on cold nights even though it was gone.

“Nelyo?”

He flinched away at the sound of Maglor’s voice.

“Nelyo” said Maglor, coming to stand over him. He wore his swords all the time now; everyone did here. “You ought to eat something.”

Maedhros gritted his teeth, laughing recklessly. “Yes, I probably ought to.” He made no move to take the hard bread and dried meat that Maglor held out towards him.

Maglor’s face was set, stony. “I’ll be damned if I let you starve yourself to death. Not now. Not after all this.”

Maedhros had to laugh once more. The sound was painful in his cracked throat, and he could taste blood, but his words, when they came, surprised even himself with the gentleness of his tone. “No need for that. You’re  _already_  damned, little brother. We all are.”

Maglor scowled, looking as though several forces were warring behind his eyes.  _He looks as though he’s trying to decide whether to hit me in the face or to burst into tears_ , thought Maedhros, with savage amusement.

But Maglor’s next words were infuriating in their gentleness. “Nelyo” he placed a tentative hand on Maedhros’ forearm, and Maedhros let him, too exhausted to argue. “Don’t do this. I know… I know it’s hard. I know that when… when you lose someone… I mean, I’ve heard tell…” he pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Anyway, the point is… we survived for a reason, I think, we - ”

“What reason?” burst out Maedhros. His lip curled in a sneer. “Apart from our Oath, I mean. For how could we possibly be allowed the mercy of death…?” He dropped his head, then looked back up at Maglor, who was listening in silence. “He was so… so…  _good_ , Macalaurë.” Maedhros felt tears starting in his eyes for the first time. It was in equal measures alarming and a relief. “F-Findekáno was… he was… he was a good person. And he was killed because I loved him.”

“Nelyo” said Maglor after a short silence. “Finno went into this knowing full well the danger he was putting himself and his people in.”

“Yes, but he trusted me to - ”

“No, listen. He knew the plan could go wrong. He went through with it anyway, and if you think he only did it for you, and that somehow Eru is  _punishing_ you…” the colour was rising in two spots on Maglor’s pale cheeks “…then maybe you didn’t know Findekáno as well as you thought.”

Maedhros glared at him. “How  _dare_  you…”

Maglor rolled his eyes. “There we are, even that’s better than no reaction at all.”

Maedhros bared his teeth, ready to flare with anger, but Maglor caught his hand, taking him by surprise and leaning close to pull him against his chest in a hug, pressing his face forward against Maedhros’ shoulder.

The unexpected closeness of being held, the warmth of his brother’s body, sent a jarring shock through Maedhros; after his return from Thangorodrim only two people had been close enough to hold him in their arms like this. One had been Maglor, and the other had been Fingon.

He drew in a deep breath, as Maglor rocked him slowly, murmuring into his shoulder. “You know you’re not the only one who grieves for Findekáno. I miss him too. I know it’s not the same, but…” Maglor let out a broken, hitching sob. “And Nelyo, I’ve missed  _you_ these last few weeks. I won’t let you slip away.” He held Maedhros tighter. “I won’t.”

And at that, Maedhros’ tears came at last, hot and stinging, a shuddering sobbing that tore through his chest, making his throat ache and convulse. He let Maglor hold him as he spoke words that were unintelligible even to himself, meaningless babble to ease the pain.

Finally he drew back, eyes raw and red. “Káno” he said seriously, inspecting Maglor’s face. “I never thanked you.”

“For what?”

“For saving me. In… in the battle. And… afterwards. Now.”

Maglor let out a watery laugh. “You’re my brother. I did not see it as a choice.” His voice took on a shade of self-pity. “Besides, I would be a terrible oldest brother and leader of our House, especially at this particular moment.”

Maedhros frowned. “I don’t believe you would be, you know.”

“Please don’t say things like that.”

They lapsed into pensive silence for a while.

“I wish I could have seen him” said Maedhros suddenly. He thought of the delicate bones of Fingon’s face, his well-shaped nose and fine high cheekbones crushed and broken, blood matted into Fingon’s heavy dark braids of hair. Would Maedhros have been able to kiss those finely moulded lips, one last time? He had heard what had happened, the savagery of his cousin’s death; would Fingon even have been recognisable? It made Maedhros shudder to even entertain the possibility that he would ever not know Fingon. “Just… one last time. I wish there had been something… some sign… I would have gone back onto that battlefield and found his body, and damn the orcs that were crawling all over everything, if I possibly could have.”

Maglor grimaced. “Well it’s good that I stopped you, then. You were wounded in both your body and your spirit, and even if you hadn’t been, you would have still been killed long before reaching Findekáno. There were just too many of them.” He shook his head, sorrowfully, fear creeping into his voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without my big brother, Nelyo, really I don’t”

Maedhros looked at him. “Keep on going, I suppose” he whispered, more to himself than to Maglor. “Just keep on going, until the very end.”


End file.
